Paroles: Minsk. The Plains Of San Augustin.
Head bowed irreverently with the cold blade resting on my neck.
Quiet time, tow the line, a time and place for everything.
"There is a season," "a time to die,"
and the word games end as the clock thunders by, and the rain sears this pain as my streams keep running dry.
Quiet time, tow the line, a time and place for everything.
"There is a season," "a time to die,"
and the word games end as the clock thunders by, and the rain sears this pain as my streams keep running dry.
Minsk
Minsk
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